


I Must Cry Out Loud

by ros3bud009



Series: Get Up [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Lost Light 25 Spoilers, M/M, References to Off Screen Interfacing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ros3bud009/pseuds/ros3bud009
Summary: Swerve had worried that things would feel different after Ratchet’s funeral.





	I Must Cry Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> So, welcome to what will hopefully become a series of connected one-shots that will all come together to form my full Fix It Fic series, Get Up.
> 
> Because while this was originally just gonna be a standalone fix it for Swerve and Misfire, SOMEBODY introduced me to the Mother Mother album Dance and Cry and, well. Here we are.
> 
> Generally speaking I'm going to try to stay true to what we know about the Present Day from LL25 and just fill in the blanks and go from there. The only big changes will be p obvious.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by Mother Mother.

Swerve had worried that things would feel different after Ratchet’s funeral.

Not because of the death itself. Swerve felt badly that that part wasn’t scary to face, not after all the death he had spent near his entire life surrounded by.

If anything, there was relief when he arrived at the ceremony. For someone he had known and respected like Ratchet to have a real funeral, with a crowd of those who actually knew and loved him and a monument and a service and a conjunx dressed in full funeral attire—

There was relief in knowing Ratchet had lived long enough that he could receive the funeral he deserved. Nothing like the hurried, procedural affairs that Swerve had seen time and again during the war.

Well, when the dead had received any acknowledgement at all.

The terror came in seeing the old crew again. Old friends. The people Swerve exchanged messages a couple of times a year with if he was lucky, heard about through the grapevine, passed gossip about back across to the folks who hadn’t heard yet.

And there had been, as he had guessed, the hurried apologies for lost contact.

_Busy._

_So busy._

_So, so busy._

Less common but frequently said were the half-sparked promises.

_We’ll have to see each other again soon._

_I’ll keep in contact._

_I’ll call._

_This time_ went unsaid, because it would remind them all that the odds that any of those promises would be kept were slim to none.

Swerve felt numb as he went through the same motions himself, saying the same things in the same ways.

And when Swerve went back home – slipping into the washroom as if he needed to wash the funeral off his plating before going to work, as if the customers would smell the mourning on him – he realized that ‘worried’ wasn’t quite right.

And when Swerve went down to the bar, going through the motions of preparing to open for the night, he realized that maybe ‘worried’  _was_ right, in a way.

Swerve hadn’t worried that something would change.

He had  _hoped_ that something would change.

He had  _worried_  that nothing would.

It had been a brief reminder of the good old days before back to the same ol’ present day and nothing more.

And finally, out of the numbness, his spark  _ached_  in its longing.

Swerve shook his helm before reaching up to slap his own cheeks.

“Cut it out,” he chastised himself sharply, giving himself another couple of light slaps when his chest still throbbed with pain. “Stop stop stop.”

It took a few more slaps before Swerve’s processor cleared just enough that he could force himself into movement again, pouring out a small shot that he threw back with a grimace.

“Get it together,” he continued as he put the glass down to fill again. Yes, he was disappointed, but he  _knew_ that was how it was going to go. And that was fine. He was  _fine_. He just needed to get all the chairs off the tables and make sure the bar was stocked and all the glasses lined up and ready to go, and once the bar was in swing he wouldn’t have time to think anymore—

Tears welled as Swerve gritted his teeth against the swelling familiarity of his loneliness.

And then came the pounding of a fist against the front door.

Swerve jumped, blinking and reaching up to slip his digits under his visor to make sure all the liquid was gone. A customer. Of course. Back to normal.

“We’re not open yet!” Swerve shouted after taking a slow in-vent. It was only really out of habit that he bothered shouting, considering the bar took up residence in one of the few buildings remaining that was made out of war-era materials. The walls were thick which lent themselves well to keeping Swerve’s from receiving noise complaints from any neighboring businesses or homes.

It did not lend itself well to shouting at customers to read the damn business hours.

The knocking stopped for a bit, and Swerve hoped they would give up easy.

They didn’t.

The knocking started up again, and it was incessant. It didn’t turn aggressive the way some would, but it was so consistent and unending that it had long outlived being polite either.

Swerve sighed as he mustered up the energy to go over and deal with the customer. Of all the things he had been prepared for after his day, particularly obnoxious customers had  _not_ been on the list, but it was a distraction at least.

And then, all at once, the knocking paused before being followed by the signature hum of blaster fire followed by the slam of the front door against the wall.

And then everything was deafening chaos as the security alarm began to blare.

“What the  _frag_?!” Swerve cursed as he ducked behind the sturdy bar, scrambling for the button to open the weapon compartment within. There wasn’t time to even consider the pang in his chest at seeing ‘My First Blaster 2: Electric Boogaloo’ in all its patronizingly multicolored glory before he had it in servo and pushed back up to his feet, peering over the bar surface again but now with the muzzle of the gun aimed into the room. “If you think I won’t shoot–!”

“Swerve!”

The sudden pounding of energon beating mercilessly against his audials nearly managed to blanket the sound of the alarm.

Wide purple wings and wide open arms and wide excited grin—

Swerve rebooted his visor, but the mech was still stood there – no, walking, the blaster being tucked away as he was quickly walking over – and there was no way,  _no way,_ and yet–

“Misfire?!”

And then those wide arms were fearlessly reaching across the bar to pluck Swerve up from where he had ducked for cover. Swerve couldn’t stop the squeak that escaped as he was bodily pulled halfway across the bar surface and his face squashed up against unmoving armor.

“Fragging  _finally._  Do you have any idea how hard it is to track you down?!” the mech complained, even if his tone was too manically excited to sound anywhere in the same galaxy as irritated. And yes, as he pulled Swerve back from his chest to get a look at him, Swerve got one in turn and that was definitely Misfire.

Tall (relatively), handsome (in Swerve’s opinion), goofy (undeniably),  _Misfire_.

“Wha—What’re you— _Primus_ , hold on, let me–!” It took longer than normal for Swerve to scrounge up the remote program to deactivate the blaring alarm, but he managed and finally there was blessed silence. A window popped up in his HUD inquiring if police services would be needed and Swerve chose ‘No’ before entering his personal code to verify it was him and yes, really, everything was actually alright.

Misfire was bouncing on his feet and in turn bouncing Swerve’s frame and finally a disbelieving laugh escaped Swerve.

“Ok, now that that’s taken care of, what the  _frag_?” Swerve asked, aware that he was still smiling despite himself.

And, of all things, Misfire pulled him to his chest again, his flight engine purring with delight as he held Swerve’s frame tight and either he was nuzzling or pressing kisses to the top of Swerve’s hood – it was hard to tell when all Swerve could see was purple.

“Didn’t think I’d actually let you get away, did you?”

* * *

Swerve had spent about a good long time trying to find Misfire’s number.

A  _long_ time.

Filtering through everyone else who had been there that day had been relatively short work, and when that resulted in nothing, Swerve had dropped the occasional “Hey, you happen to know a guy by the name of Misfire?” around his Decepticon customers. Still, after decades and centuries and millennia, it all resulted in nothing and Swerve had to face the crushing reality that theirs was to be a missed connection.

A truly tragic missed connection.

A missed connection that still haunted Swerve all these years later and tried from time to time to seduce him down the bottomless pit of imagining the What-Ifs.

No matter how regularly the concept of Misfire also trying to reconnect with him featured in said daydreams, Swerve hadn’t really dealt with the possibility that Misfire might have actually, really,  _truly_ been trying to find him in turn.

And yet here Misfire was, drink in servo even as he used that very same servo to point at Swerve accusingly, insisting, “Do you have  _any_ idea how many of these joints I’ve been to? Every time I get onto the net and start to type anything starting with S or L, you know what comes up? ‘Swerve’s Locations Near Me’!”

Misfire had been off on exciting adventures with his crew, and yet in the middle of all that fun and excitement and adventure, every now and then he would check to see if they were near a new Swerve’s location, just to see if he could find the titular Swerve.

“The worst part is I even came to this one before. Twice! But both times you were off at the Grand Opening of that one over in Tetrahex or that one on Luna 1 or wherever! And then by the time I got the guys to agree to jump over there, you were gone again!”

To find  _Swerve_.

“Finally like a year back I notice – well, ok, Grim noticed, cause he’s better at stuff like that than I am, but anyway, every time I pulled up that locater, there was never any Swerve’s nearby anymore. So Grim suggests I pull up the full map and whaddya know? You’re down to one. So when it’s my turn to pick the next place to stop by, obviously I had to come here.”

Swerve’s spark threatened to beat out of his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was good or bad or both or neither or—

“Why?”

Misfire froze midway to bringing the drink up to lips, his face twisting with confusion.

“Uhh, duh. If there’s just one Swerve’s, then where else would–”

“No, not – obviously I’d be here, where else would I be?” Swerve said, and he felt the way his smile wasn’t quite right, because where else would he be but still trying to keep this business alive?

It’s all he had left.

“I mean, why try so hard to reconnect? Obviously you’re doing ok.”

Misfire frowned.

“Because I wanted to hang out with you again.”

It was so fragging simple but Swerve still felt himself choke up.

And when he smiled, it was wobbly with emotion but fully genuine.

“Yeah, well, do you have any idea how many Decepticons I asked if they had your number? It got so bad that I had Cons coming in here that I’d never seen before introducing themselves by saying, ‘And no, I don’t know Misfire’!”

And Misfire smiled again and Swerve could have cried.

* * *

A shared drink became two, but the third never got finished because they were both too busy talking to spare a second to sip at their glasses.

It wasn’t quite accurate to say that it was like nothing had changed, because they had both continued to live lives apart in their absences. Misfire had stories both wild and domestic about his misfit crew and Swerve had gone through the hellscape of starting a business and then a franchise and then falling back to a business.

But the ease with which they fit was the same.

Millennia compressed into moments.

And the fact that even back then they had only known each other for hours – nothing in the scheme of their lives, not even deserving to be called a blink it was such a small amount of time – didn’t matter.

None of it mattered when they finished each other’s jokes.

And when Misfire grasped Swerve by the wrist and told him to grab a bottle and bring it back to his ship so he could give Swerve the full tour, Swerve didn’t even second guess himself as he followed.

 **Closed for Repairs**  was pinned to the door as Swerve took the night off.

* * *

The ship was a relatively standard midsize ship. A third the size of the Lost Light, if even that – and for all that it hurt to think of the old ship, Swerve couldn’t help using it as a comparison, always seeing how other ships stacked up against it. It was a ship meant for a smaller crew, maybe fifty something if Swerve were to guess, though from what Misfire had told him it was just eight of them aboard. The ship certainly showed signs of its long and continual use with some bumps and scrapes and blaster fire scorch marks. The paintjob was haphazard, a collection of splotches of varying sizes and shapes and colors, telling a story of dozens of attempts to finally paint the whole ship but, like every time before, having the project aborted before it could go very far.

Misfire gestured at the ship with open pride.

“Here it is! Our Ship in all its beauty.”

“It have a name?”

“That  _is_  the name. Our Ship. The last one’s name was too complicated so we’re trying out something real easy.”

“Right. So where’d you get Our Ship?”

Misfire grinned even wider, optics sparkling.

“Well, there’s two ways you get a ship like this. The first is you save up money from working a bunch of jobs for a while till you can afford it. The second is you get yourself to the scummiest dive bar in the scummiest galaxy, wait for the scummiest scumbag that nobody would miss to walk in, and see to it that he isn’t around to get mad when you take his ship.”

“And you did… which?”

“Doesn’t matter much now, does it?”

“Is—is he dead?”

“I mean, he’s a purely theoretical entity, a real Schrodinger’s scumbag if you will, but also I honestly don’t know. He was still alive when we left him there.”

It was no Lost Light, but Swerve decided he rather liked Our Ship as Misfire herded him inside.

The inside also told a story, and this one was the constant battle between tidiness and chaotic mess. Swerve wasn’t sure which one was chasing the other around the ship or if it was more like a turbofox chasing its own tail, but there was a certain charm to it.

Every door was indicated and explained, regardless of whether it was a storage room or the mess or someone’s room or ‘uh I don’t actually know, I’ve been meaning to check for a while but I keep forgetting.’

“And here we have the Conners.”

“The Conners?”

“Yeah, Crankcase and Cons4eva. They bonded pretty soon after the whole fighting fake Primus thing. Crankcase wanted him to be his Conjunx, and while none of us can say the word right cause it’s way too organic, Cons4eva says his word for the same thing translates best as Partner.”

And Swerve snorted as he managed, “So,  _obviously_ , Conners.”

“See, you get it!” Misfire said as he turned to continue down the hall. “And then the next room is for the Conners’ kids.”

“Kids?!”

“Yeah. I mean, I think they’re biologically just Con4eva’s because while I hear their interfacing is very sexy, it’s not exactly compatible for baby making.”

“You have biological babies walking around?!”

“They just kind of chill in their cocoons. But the other day Burble did a little wiggle so they might be ready to come out in a month or so.”

“Burble.”

“Yeah. Burble and Grunt and Tongue Pop. That’s what we call ‘em anyway since that’s what their names sound like when Cons4eva says ‘em.”

Swerve had infinitely more questions.

But where Misfire’s wings had swept behind him easily before, now they twitched, the movement almost jerky as they caught Swerve’s visor.

“And with the kids behind us, that leads us to the main event!”

Swerve had already begun to make some guesses to the state that Misfire’s room would be in. He could only imagine that Misfire was on Team Mess on the ship.

But instead Swerve’s spark stilled in his chest.

It was a room meant for two, like Swerve guessed most of the rooms were, but instead of spreading out to claim the whole room as his own, Misfire’s possessions were kept firmly to one side of the room, as if kept there by some invisible line. The room was also relatively mess free. Tidy would have been a stretch but obviously attention had been paid to make sure nothing was on the floor and that it was swept.

In fact, the bare side of the room was particularly clean. Everything wiped down and shiny, waiting for someone to occupy the space.

Like Swerve’s room had been back on the Lost Light when he had been looking for a roommate.

“Tada!” Misfire crowed, skip-stepping into the space, arms and wings spread out wide to indicate the space, grin still on his face. “Nice, right?”

When Swerve’s spark spun again, it was in double-time, washing over him with painful nostalgia.

“Y-yeah, it’s – wow, yeah.” When Misfire stared at him expectantly, Swerve forced a hollow laugh as he said, “Sorry, I just didn’t expect it to, uh. Be so clean?”

Misfire snorted and placed his servos on his hips.

“Harsh, but fair. Half my scrap is shoved into my closet as we speak, ready to burst out at a moment’s notice,” Misfire admitted, servo gesturing to the offending door on his side of the suite. “I’d have left it all out but I’m told that’s not especially welcoming. Fulcrum said it would definitely be a killing blow against my proposal, so I figured I’d play it safe.”

Swerve was so torn between how badly he did and  _didn’t_ want to ask that it felt like he was splitting in two.

But he hadn’t ever been known for keeping his mouth shut.

“Proposal?”

Misfire still had his chest puffed and wings held high and proud, but his grin wavered for a moment.

“We don’t have to jump to that yet. Now come on, I’ve got some jellies hidden around here somewhere, so why don’t you pop that bottle in your subspace and let’s get this party started.”

Misfire’s digits were warm around Swerve’s wrist, tempting, but Swerve’s pedes felt as if they had been welded to the floor.

Misfire’s expression faltered.

“They told me I definitely should not, under any circumstances, lead with that.”

“They?” Swerve echoed stupidly. He couldn’t stop looking at the empty half of the room, empty and  _waiting_ , a near perfect mirror image of the empty and waiting side of Swerve’s room that had never been filled, never been shared–

“The rest of the gang. They disagreed about a lot of stuff but that was the one thing they  _really_ agreed on. Grim was the only one on my side, but he admitted he wasn’t much of an expert himself, and we’re both pretty aggressively upfront–”

Swerve’s spark was threatening to pulse hard enough to break him to pieces.

–the room nobody had ever  _wanted_  to share with Swerve.

The servo around Swerve’s wrist tugged until Swerve was looking at Misfire. The flier’s wings twitched a couple times before stilling again, back to their high, confidence stance.

“Frag it. I wanted to ask if you would want to move in.”

Swerve’s mouth dropped and nothing came out at first.

“That’s – that’s not, there’s no—you’re joking.”

“It would be a bad joke if I was, and I don’t tell bad jokes.”

“But—but it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other!” Swerve stammered, as if his spark wasn’t swelling in his chest with emotions he dare not consider. “And we didn’t even know each other that long to start with, so that – that would be insane, that would be–”

“Awesome,” Misfire interrupted, stepping closer, his other servo grasping Swerve’s other wrist. There was a softness in his face that Swerve was pretty sure he had never seen before. “It would be awesome.”

It was the sound of clattering metal that had Swerve realizing he was trembling.

“But you don’t have to decide yet, obviously,” Misfire backpedaled, squeezing reassuringly. “We’re gonna be hanging around Cybertron for a few days at least, since Krok is working out a shipment deal. Which when he says a few days, it’s usually a couple weeks, so there’s plenty of time. And I mean, we can always come back to Cybertron another time in the future so. No rush.”

The shaking was just getting worse. Misfire’s grin finally collapsed fully and his thumbs were rubbing against Swerve’s plating.

“Listen, just forget it, ok? I should’ve waited to ask. I didn’t mean to freak you ou–”

“Do you  _want_  me to stay here?” Swerve croaked, at once filled with shame that his voice was so weak, so desperate and shaky.

Misfire blinked, surprised.

“Duh. You think I would clean for just anybody?”

And, just like that, Swerve felt the tears start to spill past his visor and down his cheeks.

“Sorry, frag, s-sorry, I’m – it’s been a really weird day,” Swerve started to stammer out as he tried to tug his servos from Misfire’s grip, wanting to cover his face. Misfire didn’t let go, and he didn’t stop him from talking, and Swerve’s mouth kept going without his permission. “It was Ratchet’s funeral today, you know? Or—or not, that’s probably not super relevant to you, but it was to me, and my old friends, and so I saw them today, right? At the funeral? And it was nice seeing them but it’s just – I hate thinking about the Lost Light, because we all left saying we’d stay close, but we  _didn’t_. And we still pretend, act like we all still care, and  _I_ do, because I’m stupid and sentimental and  _lonely_ , but they have lives and loves and are so busy, we’re all so busy!”

Swerve didn’t mean to shout. He shouldn’t shout.

A sob choked him.

“And I can’t stop thinking about how it used to be! About how fragging great it was when we were all together. We were like a family! And now I’m lucky if they swing by my bar because they’re already in town for something else, and—and–!”

Swerve was grasping onto Misfire’s servos like a lifeline as his vision swirled and blurred with moisture.

“—And the worst part? Even then, even in those fragging good ol’ days, I was lonely. I had a room all to myself and I kept half of it clean and ready for someone to move in and nobody ever did and I  _hated_  it. I’m lonely, I’ve always been lonely, and I’ll just keep being lonely! I’m going to die someday,  _lonely_ , and if I’m  _lucky_ there will be a crowd of people there, all talking about how they never see each other and pretending they’ll stay in touch when it’s all just lies!”

Swerve’s mouth hung open as he gasped in desperate breaths, his vents unable to keep up with his frame’s insistent need for cool air, regardless of the fact that he wasn’t actually overheating. He was panicking, it was all hitting too hard too suddenly and all at once and he couldn’t hold it all in, but couldn’t let it all out, and it choked him as he hyperventilated.

“Swerve? Hey, Swerve, relax, it’s ok,” came Misfire’s voice through the haze, his servos squeezing Swerve’s in turn.

Tears dripped from Swerve’s chin as more rushed to escape down his cheeks.

“A-and—and I still was so happy to see everyone, because I miss them  _so much_. I want to reconnect with them so badly, I want my friends back, I want them back and I don’t know how and I’m so alone, and–”

The muffling of his words registered before the pressure against his mouth did, and even then it was difficult for Swerve’s processor to fully wrap around what was happening.

Swerve hadn’t realized Misfire was kissing him until he was already pulling away.

His processor hiccupped and skidded to a violent halt and his vision was still blurry with a torrent of tears, but Swerve still stared with bright optics behind his bright visor up into Misfire’s.

Already he could see Misfire grimacing.

“Frag. Sorry, I shouldn’t have – that was bad. Sorry. I panicked.”

Swerve’s mouth still gaped, so he closed it as he tried to calibrate the what’s and when’s and where’s and how how how’s.

“You kissed me,” he finally croaked dumbly.

“Yeah. Primus, yeah, sorry. I’m really bad at this.”

Misfire’s servos were still in his, anchors to keep Swerve from slipping away again.

“Can you do it again?”

* * *

Swerve wished he could say it was the first time he had tried to escape his feelings by finding refuge in another mech’s frame, but it would have been a blatant lie. He had made a habit of taking the offered escape where he could find it. If he couldn’t trust himself to sink into himself again, to lose himself in fantasy, than what other choice did he have than to lose himself in the push and pull and pleasure of the physical world?

With low self-esteem and a spark-deep desperation to escape its loneliness, it was a no-brainer.

Misfire had kissed him again, but it had been just as chaste, if a bit sweeter.

But then when he had pulled Swerve to his berth, it was only push him to sit before stepping back.

“Don’t look so eager, Pipsqueak. First you’re taking some nice slow ventilations while I get you some energon. Then you’re gonna drink that energon and we’re just gonna talk. There will be  _no_  fragging until all tears are dried up and I’ve heard you genuinely laugh again.”

Swerve had been wary of letting Misfire go, but once he was told the energon supply was just shoved into Misfire’s closet so he’d still be in the room, Swerve had released his servos.

And no force in the universe could have kept Swerve from laughing when Misfire’s closet opened only to have its contents break lose in an avalanche of mess that spilled past Misfire’s pedes. The tin of polish that rolled all the way across the room to hit the opposite wall with an audible thunk broke Swerve as he wheezed again, but this time from hysteric laughter.

“That doesn’t count!” Misfire insisted as he pointed at Swerve accusingly, despite the grin pulling at his mouth.

And it hadn’t. Nor had the second or third or twelfth bout of laughter.

It was well into the early hours of the morning before Misfire kissed him a third time. Hours upon hours had been spent sitting side by side on his berth, talking more seriously about their lives since they had last met; the funny along with the difficult; the pain along with the small joys.

About love and death and friendship and reconnection.

“Sorry I went full meltdown on you earlier,” Swerve blurted out, and to his surprise, Misfire simply shrugged. The movement jostled Swerve where he was plastered against the flier’s side, but he didn’t go far before Misfire pulled him back in with a servo on his shoulder-tire.

“Don’t worry about it. You obviously needed it.”

“Yeah. I guess I didn’t know I had let everything get so bad in my head. Like… I just kept shoving it down and down and down and then you showed up and boom! I’m shown an iota of affection and I lose my goddamn mind. It’s—well, ok, not really funny so much as sad, but, yeah. I think I needed it.”

And instead of saying anything, Misfire had leaned down to kiss Swerve. It was insistent and pushy and Swerve felt a whine build in his chest as he clung to Misfire.

“I really like you, Pipsqueak,” Misfire said against Swerve’s mouth. “I know I said I came ‘cause I wanted to hang out, and I do, but it’s also ‘cause I really liked you. I knew I had to get you back into my life.”

And Swerve smiled as he replied, “You’re crazy.”

“True. But you like it.”

Swerve was the one who pressed up into their fourth kiss, kissing Misfire as joy swelled in his chest and moisture gathered behind his visor again.

“I love it.”

There was no refuge or escape this time though.

Misfire’s frame felt like home.

* * *

“We’re looking for crew members, you know.”

Swerve hummed as he nuzzled against Misfire’s side.

“I already said I’d move in.”

Misfire’s engine purred as he replied, “Yeah, no, I remember how frag number two started. But that wasn’t my point.”

It was a struggle to push up from the perfect cradle Swerve had found, but he managed to shift back enough to look up at Misfire quizzically.

“Ok? You want me to put a flyer up in the bar or something?”

“Nah. We need a crew we can trust with our future goal.”

The light of Swerve’s visor narrowed as he said, “You guys have a goal?”

“What? That’s not weird,” Misfire insisted as he half-pouted. “Just because we make everything up as we go along doesn’t mean we don’t have future goals we eventually want to get to. Way to assume just because we’re a bunch of crazy cons–”

Swerve reached up to shove his servo against Misfire’s face, chuckling quietly as he interrupted, “Ok, ok! What’s your future goal, Mister Big Shot.”

“Please. Mister Big Shot was my father,” Misfire said before Swerve shoved and giggled harder. “Alright, alright, I’ll tell you, but you gotta keep it a secret, ok?”

“Oh, well, in that case, maybe you shouldn’t tell me–”

“We wanna bust Megatron out.”

Several very silent seconds passed before Swerve managed to squeak out, “What?”

“Well, it just seems cruel, the whole infinite containment slag. Execution, sure, that we could live with – well, he couldn’t, but it’d be the decent thing to do. But forever in prison? That’s just fragged. Nobody needs to have to sit around waiting for the heat death of the universe to finally be free of it, you know? So yeah, we’ve always wanted to spring him but we don’t have nearly the kind of crew or supplies for something like that.”

“Oh… ok,” Swerve said. He didn’t disagree, but it was a lot to take in. And as exciting as a prison break scheme sounded, this was the Galactic Council they were talking about. That would take a truly brilliant but nutty crew to pull off—

Swerve blinked.

“No.  _No._  You can’t mean the old Lost Light crew.”

Misfire’s grin was wild and manic.

“Why not?”

“They—they have lives! They have other stuff they’re doing, so they can’t just up and go on a crazy prison break quest!”

“Do they? ‘Cause I’ll bet they’d say the same about you. Maybe they want a change of pace as bad as you do.”

Swerve had pushed himself to sit up, servos gesturing, but that brought him to a standstill. Misfire’s smile softened but he didn’t relent.

“Couldn’t hurt to ask if anybody wants to get themselves back up into space.”

And there it was again: that hope for change.

It didn’t seem so scary to hold in his spark when he was enshrouded in the warmth of Misfire’s berth.

“I could make some calls.”

“Awesome.” Misfire pushed up as well, wings quivering with excitement as he leaned in, smothering Swerve with kisses. “This is gonna be  _awesome_. We get you moved in, get ourselves some more crew members, spring Meg from his cage, and then I’m thinking… wedding on Hedonia?”

Swerve wouldn’t have been able to contain his giggles if he had tried.

“Hedonia? No way. We gotta do Vegas.”

“Which Vegas? Please don’t say Vegas 7 because we definitely burned some metaphorical and also very real bridges there.”

“Las Vegas. It’s a city on Earth.”

“I can dig that. So move in, find crew, save Meg, then finally fly to Vegas so you can make me your lawfully wedded wife.”

“Husband.”

“Uh, no, definitely wife. Just wait till you see my Earth holoform. She’s a real looker. Wife material for sure.”

And Swerve couldn’t stop laughing, even as he kissed Misfire silly.

* * *

Late the next day, the sign on Swerve’s was swapped out for a new one.

**Closed for Quest**


End file.
